


Day 24: Lawyer/Hot Dog Vendor Verse: "From the Desk of D. Winchester"

by TC (thecollective)



Series: Destiel Smut Brigade AU Challenge [20]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Anonymous Sex, Blow Job, Deepthroating, Destiel Smut Brigade, Gabriel is a conniving a-hole, Hand Jobs, Hot Dog Vendor!Castiel, Inspired by Otis Redding, Inspired by the costuming of Mad Men, Lawyer!Dean, M/M, May cause exploding pants and momma slapping, Oral Sex, POV First Person, Porn With Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, law office, mentions of John Winchester - Freeform, mentions of Sam Winchester - Freeform, past F/M relationship between Dean and OFC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 16:20:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2354822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecollective/pseuds/TC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the 1960s, Dean Winchester is unhappily working in the law offices of Winchester & Son. One day, a hot dog stand appears in front of his office building, and Dean makes it his mission to get rid of the street vendor. The hot dog vendor doesn't go down without a fight...or does he? (yes, that pun is intended)</p><p>Basically, this is what happens when I listen to too much Otis Redding and stare at the costumes from Mad Men. Smut with plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 24: Lawyer/Hot Dog Vendor Verse: "From the Desk of D. Winchester"

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first Destiel Smut Brigade piece! Please don't let the 1st person POV scare you away from this; it just wouldn't let itself be written any other way. Sometimes I just really like to experiment and try new forms, k? Also, since in this AU Dean is highly educated, you'll come across vocabulary in his POV that seems OOC, but it's intentional to reflect the level of learning he's achieved. Part 2 will be posted on September 30. 
> 
> Special thanks to jacksqueen16 for kicking my arse into finishing this one. Love you darling. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, its characters, or Otis Redding. I make no profit from writing this (other than your kudos).

 

> **Memorandum**
> 
> **To: All Concerned**
> 
> **From: D. Winchester**
> 
> **Priority: Urgent**
> 
> **Date: 9/17/68**
> 
> **Re: Hot Dogs**
> 
> **Please be advised that the law offices of Winchester & Son do not encourage the consumption of sausages, no matter how “big and delicious” they may be. -D.W.**

* * *

 

> **Memorandum**
> 
> **To: All Concerned**
> 
> **From: D. Winchester**
> 
> **Priority: High**
> 
> **Date: 9/17/68**
> 
> **Re: Prior Memo**
> 
> **To clarify, all street meat must be consumed outside of the office. Anyone caught in illicit interactions with the meat man on the corner will be dealt with by me. -D.W.**

* * *

> **Memo**
> 
> **To: You Know Who You Are**
> 
> **From: You Know Who I Am**
> 
> **Priority: Just read it**
> 
> **Date: 9/18/68**
> 
> **Re: Previous 2 Memos**
> 
> **Just stop eating hot dogs in the office. -D.W.**

* * *

 

The scrape of a man’s teeth across my inner thigh, it isn’t something I expected to like. Sam tells me the world is changing and I should adapt. For the record, this isn’t how I normally spend a Tuesday night at the office, or really any night at all, but it is a welcome change from depositions and case read-throughs that smell of spilled coffee and stale cigarettes. Sam's one to talk about adapting, but I suppose the erection that insists on tenting my khaki twill slacks is singing a different tune from the one it sang yesterday.

Every day before today is one I'd like to forget, and the bourbon in the bottom drawer of the desk helps me with that mission. Well, the bottle of bourbon and a street vendor with the eyes of an angel and the mouth of the devil. _DearbabyJesus_ , I shouldn’t be doing this here, but the scraping of his teeth is echoed by the scraping of my nails on my oak desk. I don’t have to look to know that there are indents like crescent moons in the wood’s fine grain.

Note to self: have Meg put in a maintenance order to buff out the scratches and dents.

Second note to self: Cancel the first note. I don’t want to have to explain why the scratches match up perfectly to my fingernails.

When the man beneath the desk palms my crotch, I forget all about Meg, and maintenance orders, and every other damn thing that could be filed under “things that relate to Dean Winchester’s practice of law.” If anything, the moan that erupts from my lips is enough to clue everyone in the damn building as to what’s going on in the junior partner’s office. I really couldn’t give a shit at the moment. Hell, let Ed Carson come and film the whole damn thing, as long as this guy doesn’t stop touching me.

Third note to self: Ask the hot dog vendor why he wears a trenchcoat (really, what kind of moron wears an apron over a trenchcoat? It's October in Los Angeles, and that's like August most anywhere else.) I can't find it in me to complain too much internally about his trenchcoat, since it gives me something to grasp, something to twist with my right hand as he mouths the outline of my erection, dampening the fabric of my pants and leaving behind a ring of saliva. Easier to disguise than a lipstick stain.

“ _Jesus_ ,” I say to him.

“Don’t say God’s name,” he replies as he opens my fly.

It occurs to me, not for the first time today, that this is all Gabriel's fault, and I’m glad I insisted on the corner office--the one without the windows overlooking the rows of cubicles. I don't know whether to thank Gabe or curse him for pointing out “Franks for the Memories”, the tin atrocity that set itself up outside our law offices overnight (no matter how good this man feels, the stand is an eyesore and probably breaking half a dozen city codes, and really, hot dogs sold on the street must be violating some sort of health standard).  

If I stare at the wall, at the small horseshoe-shaped stain from a bottle of whiskey that once violently embraced it, then maybe I can pretend that this is a dream; there is no man almost-beneath my desk with a hand on my dick and teeth in my thigh. The wall is not as interesting as watching his lips, however. Plenty of women have been in this position, their hands and lips and hair softer, and their mouths gentler, but I've never been harder than I am right now. He licks his lips, his tongue tracing the contours of a mouth that has nothing feminine about it. It’s a man’s mouth that surrounds my cock, a man’s tongue that drags itself along it, root to tip. Fuck. _Fuck_. No woman ever did this--wrapped their lips around my cock so zealously and without hesitation--but maybe a man just instinctively knows what another man needs?

Jesus. Fuck. Hell. “ _Please_ ,” I mutter over and over.

“Please, what?” he asks.

“Just... _more_.” I want his mouth on me, swallowing me as far as he can. I want to see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. The thought makes me even harder, so hard that it hurts.

He undoes my belt and yanks down my suit trousers. His breath on my bare skin, it scorches and chills me simultaneously. I can see his bite marks in my flesh now, and _Jesusfuckdamnholyhell_ he licks the shallow dents and his hands, god, his hands, they pull and twist just _so_ and fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Even Darrin Stephens never scored a cat that had such magic fingers.

“Please,” I babble, “Please, please, please.”

He obliges. His mouth, stretched wide over my cock, is hot, and _sweetvirginmary_ is his mouth a Dustbuster? He chuckles at the sound of my moans, and I lean over, placing both hands in the center of my desk for balance. _JesusMaryandJoseph_ the vibrations in his throat. I open my mouth to tell him such cliche and trite things as “don’t stop never stop” but what comes out is a strangled version of “nnnnggghhh.”

He hums, and _fuckfuckfuck_ I just never knew what I was missing, what other men at Gold’s Gym whispered about in the concealing mists of the steam room. He reaches up, grabs my wrists, places my hands on his head, covering his ears. It’s an oddly intimate gesture, and, god, his ears. The tips of his ears are smooth, smooth like velvet, and he groans as I rub them between my fingers.

“So you like that?” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer, just bobs faster, sucks harder, and wraps those magic hands around the base of my cock.  And then he goes down, down farther than any woman ever has, and _ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckthatshisthroatjesusfuckitssotight_. I can’t hold back much longer, and the words are pouring out amidst a flood of swear words and appeals to a God I don’t believe in. He pulls his mouth off my dick, the suction creating an audible _pop!_ as he does. He says, “In or out?”

“What?”

He smiles, and damn his eyes are blue, bluer than Lora’s or any other cat I’ve scored. “In it is,” he says with that coy smile. He attacks my cock again with a vengeance, sucking, pumping, teeth barely grazing the most sensitive parts. My hands never leave his ears--he seems to like that--and I rub his ears in rhythm with the bobbing of his head. “I can’t,” I pant, “I can’t--Jesus--I can’t.” I can’t finish the sentence, can’t string a coherent thought, can’t hold back any longer, can’t stop but never want this to end, and then his hands, _sweetfuckinghellhishands_ they press into my thighs, his nails grazing where his teeth once bit and he holds them there as he swallows every drop of my release. His eyes never leave mine as he licks my cock clean. I slump, boneless in more ways than one, in my chair. He stays kneeling on the floor, still halfway beneath the desk, but he rests his head on my knee.

I remember why he’s here, in my office, _Franks for the Memories_. I can picture it now: Gabe, who owns the Mexican restaurant across the street, standing outside on a Tuesday morning, which is not much better than a Monday except that it’s one day closer to Friday, and watching as I see the hot dog stand and I add "call Health  & Safety re: vendor's codes" to my daily mental agenda.  Whatever Gabe might say about "following the American dream" (he's the son of Swedish immigrants who opened a Mexican eatery for chrissakes), this morning I was certain the founding fathers didn't intend for people to set up shop on street corners and sell processed cow guts to honest working folk.

Fourth note to self: re-evaluate the benefits of sausage eating.

His dark hair is long, longer than I’ve ever had my hair. He doesn’t mind when I tug on it, tug him till he's standing, tug him closer to me. I suppose this guy dresses the part of what Sam tells me is “hip” nowadays. Maybe I’m just part of a dying breed of folk who value precise lines and professionalism. Even though this guy looks the same age as me, I wonder what I’d say to him if we ever met at the YMCA’s swimming pool or at a diner. If we would acknowledge each other's existence beyond a cursory nod.  

This man--the hot dog vendor who knows his rights and spent twenty minutes explaining the health code to _me_ \--he kisses like a thunderstorm, all impact and quaking, and the press and pull of his greedy lips sends jolts of lightning straight down my spine. Lora never kissed like this, like the universe could begin again from our entwined breath.

How did I end up here?

Sometime after 6 o’clock, the hot dog vendor stormed into my office, and somewhere between “under Section 5.56.030 I have the right to be sell hot dogs on a corner that is not within 200 feet of a church, school, or intersection” and “you have _no right_ to be such an unbearable pompous ass and I find the sound of your voice to be quite grating” the guy, who has no sense of personal space, got too close for comfort. I stared him down, because that’s what we do to perps who won’t crack under cross-interrogation. The few seconds of staring turned into a few minutes, and then, _fuck_ somewhere around the time I took a step backward, he leaned in and whispered, “What’s the matter? Are you afraid of what will happen if you _don’t_ look away?”

I didn’t look away.

Fifth note to self: Have Meg call Health & Safety back tomorrow and cancel request to review the hot dog vendor’s permit.

“Do you have any music?” the man asks.

I motion to the record player in the corner. It was a gift from my brother when I became junior partner, but the family of dust bunnies surrounding it shows that it hasn’t been used much recently. “There are some records on the bookcase,” I tell him. The records are crammed between the volumes of the California Civil Codes and Dickens’ _Bleak House_. A testament to my table-for-one lifestyle.

I don't know his name, this man who sells hot dogs for a living, and I’m not sure if his name is the thing I need least or most in the world.

He turns on Otis Redding, and maybe, it’s kind of perfect, the crooning balladeer’s voice surrounding the hot dog vendor with the eyes of an angel.

"Touch me," the man commands. His voice is thundering rain upon a desiccated desert, and the command is not without a nonverbal "please." The feel of him beneath my fingers, it feels like the time Lora and I went to Mexico and she could only say, "Yo quiero un coco, por favor" and I was the only one, for once, who could speak, who could understand. This man is a language I speak fluently, and with my hands I learn to conjugate the verbs of his skin, pressing the direct objects with my fingertips and kissing the split infinitives away.

When I reach the front of his navy slacks, he’s panting a little. His eyes are closed, his lips parted, and _fuckfuckfuck_ I’m the reason he looks like that. When I take his cock in my hand, it’s already thick and leaking and Jesus. I’m a novice to this kind of lifestyle, but I know he has to be close.

“Touch me,” he repeats. It’s less of a command now and more of an appeal.

I wrap a hand around him. The feeling is strange and familiar as I pump my hand up and down. His eyes remain closed, but his eyelashes flutter as he heaves out soft sighs. He leans forward into my right shoulder, holding onto it as if to keep from dying. I press him to me, and maybe we sway a little, maybe we don’t, as I move my hand faster and faster. I reach my other hand up to his right ear and I rub the very tip in time with my strokes. It’s enough to make him shudder, to make him groan, to make him press forward into my hand, into me as he comes.

The weight of his body, practically supported by my own, is welcome. Too sated to care much, he pulls a handkerchief out of a pocket and lazily cleans us up. Out of his other pocket, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He collapses into my desk chair and lights up. He offers me one, and I take it. The burn of the smoke in my lungs keeps me awake, keeps me alert. He pulls me down on top of him, so we’re both sitting in the chair. Behind us, Otis Redding keeps on crooning. “Good song,” he whispers, nuzzling into my neck.

I agree with him. We smoke in silence for a few minutes, Redding’s refrains accompanied by our drawn out exhales. After watching him form his lips into a perfect O-shape as he exhales, Lora and every other gal I’ve ever gone with seem like an abandoned ship, gone down in a perfect storm of wrong timing and social conditioning. “Can I have another cigarette?” I ask him.

He arches one eyebrow, and fuck seeing that, it’s something that undoes me like the cap of a bottle of scotch. “Are you sure?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He hands me another one, takes one for himself, and lights them both. “Castiel Novak,” he says.

“Nice to meet you, Cas.”

> _It's early in the morning_
> 
> _About a quarter till three_
> 
> _I'm sittin' here talkin' with my baby_
> 
> _Over cigarettes and coffee, now_
> 
> _And to tell you that_
> 
> _Darling I've been so satisfied_
> 
> _Honey since I met you_
> 
> _Baby since I met you, ooh_

 

* * *

 

> **Memorandum**
> 
> **To: All Concerned**
> 
> **From: D. Winchester**
> 
> **Priority: Not really**
> 
> **Date: 9/19/68**
> 
> **Re: Food in the Office**
> 
> **Please disregard all previous restrictions on eating hot dogs at the office. Any items from Gabe’s Burrito Joint are still banned, however. -D.W.**
> 
> ****

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics at the end are from Otis Redding's "Cigarettes and Coffee," which was the main inspiration for this piece. 
> 
> I do not endorse the habit of smoking, but my granddad once told me he smoked 5 packs a day (at work!) back in the 60s, and that it was the norm. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are love, but as Thumper says in Bambi, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say nothing at all." 
> 
> If you like, you can follow me on twitter @dearcollectress  
> Or not. Comme tu veux.


End file.
